Out of the Twilight and Into the Morning
by VegetaCold
Summary: An ode to a previous story posted around a similar time. AHH, nostalgia. Danny faces his parents betrayal after he reveals his powers to them and is rejected.
1. Chapter 1

That night was cool, crisp—the kind of weather that would make your throat dry and sharp, burning like an open wound. It was the type of weather that would drive you to the warmth of the inside, where you could sit by a fireplace and avoid the harsh reality of the world in which you lived. Leaves struggled to hang onto the trees whose branches withered and creaked, swaying in the harsh winds. The stormy weather drew upon a pinkish purple sky which claimed the landscape as a desolate place no life should be lived.

But it was, tonight, as with many nights. Some were restless. Danny Fenton and his cousin so to speak, Dani, spelled with an "I", sat in the driest portion of a marsh outside the town of Amity Park, contemplating the reality of their lives. Their feet were drawn close to their bodies and they hugged them tightly, staring at the partially frozen swamp before them whole they talked. The cold wind ruffled his shag of a haircut; it drew hers about her face in a manner that would be attractive had she been past the age of twelve and had lost her baby fat. They were cold, but they were not stupid.

"So this is what it's like," Danny said softly, watching as the grass swayed in time with the wind across the icy water. A wolf howled somewhere off in the distance, sending chills down their spines as if touched by cold fingers reaching from the past where warmth was inevitable. Dani notably quivered, noticing that her companion's voice was matched by this coldness. "To be alone…" he looked off into the distance, the last letters seeming to slip off his tongue and linger in the air, carried by the wind.

She looked at him, green eyes shining in the twilight. "It's probably not a good first night...it's usually not like this," she said quietly, touching his knee as she watched his eyes fill with a gentle glaze as he opened them after a long, thoughtful blink.

"What, you mean that it's warmer other nights? Or that it's not windy and dark and like something out of the movies Sam and I used to watch? Is that what you mean?" His voice remained surprisingly calm, but the fury driving these words was not lost to the small girl.

"…Danny, you can't get mad at me…I…"

He turned and looked at her—not angrily, but not with any certain hesitance. His green eyes glowed back at hers, looking like a cat's in the low light, perhaps signaling to those creatures whose voices ruled the night. His lips were pressed tightly together, and for a small moment he didn't even look like Danny Fenton or Phantom—he looked like some old, fatigued fellow who'd been through hell and back and had taken nothing positive from it, left cloaked in bitterness. "I'm not mad at you Dani, but I'd think you of all people would be able to understand how completely…crappy this is." He seemed to be holding his tongue, as if worried that the girl who'd lived the majority of her life alone on the streets had never heard words like "shit."

"I know it's crappy, Danny…god, I've lived my whole life out here…I never even knew what it's like to have parents…"

Now his eyes narrowed—they were hatful and the way they had brightened so suddenly made her want to turn and flee, as if he were some cemetery dweller, a dark, hollowed and stringy skeleton with beady eyes who'd crawled out of its coffin to return to its wretched existence and torment those left living. Her lips came apart slightly, and her pale skin became more pale, mimicking the cold, dead features of the world around them.

"I know your life sucks, Dani." His voice was now bright with anger. "Yeah, poor you, you were created by Vlad and it was a mistake and you never had parents. But you know you're actually lucky because that means that you don't ever have to feel what I felt. You don't ever have to feel that betrayal!"

Dani could only stare at him with wide, unbelieving eyes. In the twilight they looked like high-beams and were isolated from the dead landscape as would be a red streak in a world of black and white. The half-ghost girl had never seen her cousin like this before—so untouchable. His parents had betrayed him when he'd finally decided to reveal his sad secret and now he felt that he had nothing to lose because he had no love left; he'd forgotten that there were people who still cared for him and always would no matter what—his sister, his friends, herself, her so called "father." But he was removed. Isolated, cold, dead, in a manner of speaking. In her eyes he began to dissolve into the world around them; he became one with the haunting twilight and lingered there, absolved of responsibilities, blessed with the ultimate freedom. He had no moral attachments.

But maybe he _did_, because that moment in which he resembled the cemetery dweller had passed, and now he was Danny again, brought back into his young body by the look of horror and disbelief present on her face. It was a look he couldn't live with and was himself chilled by, more so than the cold air that bit hatefully at his cheeks, which now flushed with the realization of his outburst. He looked down at her, stunned at his own actions and unsure how to justify them, or if that was even appropriate.

"Dani…I…I don't…I…"

At one time she might have cried—there were those moments, yes—but two years of living on her own, melding in with the hoods of various poor cities where Vlad Masters would never set a polished shoe and being trained in the ways of the rats there had drained her of tears, permanently. She had learned that tears and sadness got you killed out in the real world—or if nothing else, they did no good. So she'd wipe her eyes, always. But no tears had come to her eyes since.

"It's okay," she said in a show of great strength, but was still shaken and uneasy—maybe it was just the eerie quality that night held, which left her wondering if the dead would break the ground and offer a withered hand in place of words to request a dance beneath the covered moon.

He shook his head, and the wind stuttered and tugged confusedly at the locks of silver hair which fluttered about him as he did so. "No, I shouldn't have…"

"No," she said in agreement, but looked at him with the eyes of one who understands and who does not judge. "You shouldn't have, but you know that it's okay—I get it…but at the same time I really don't, you know? You're right…I'll never know how it feels to have my parents betray me, and I can only imagine how hard that is for you, Danny…it's not fair…"

He looked down at his hands, some of that hardness regaining place in his gaze, but it was not for her. "No, it's not. But then again what's ever been fair about my life? All my life I've been stuck with some big jerk for a dad who's been so focused on his stupid ghost inventions and _food _to notice his kids. And maybe I could have dealt with that, but he took that a step further by…by _ruining _my damn life with these powers…and then they have the _nerve_…"

His voice trailed away and again the words slipped out powerlessly and were carried away by the wind. And as if drained, he trailed off, looking down at his gloves—covered in the blood of one of the many scratches on his body inflicted by his mother and father. Dani could tell with ease that in his mind he was remembering all of the times they'd kissed his wounds when he was young and careless and was now recognizing the irony of this—recognizing the harsh reality of the world they'd both been carelessly dumped into without any regard for where they might land. In his eyes she saw he was deciding those times meant nothing and his eyes began to fill; he'd never been to Brooklyn or Chicago, where she spent most of her time because Plasmius didn't deal there.

And she was stronger, so she could give him this comfort. She hugged him, without hesitating. The cemetery dweller was gone, for what she believed would be a long while. He hugged her back without any hesitation on his part, and held her close. Here in this desolate place sparked the only seed of warmth and love for miles. The two of them reveled in it, soaking it in while it lasted. When it was gone and they broke apart, painfully, Dani tried to rekindle it, to stoke a fire which would drive away the sterile, morgue-like cold of the night, the twilight haunting.

"I know this doesn't make it okay, the powers I mean…but I'm thankful for them because if you hadn't gotten them, we would have never met and I wouldn't be so lucky to have you as the best cousin ever." She smiled at him, and it took some work, but he smiled back, tiredly.

They were silent for a while, unsure where to take their being from there; they stared into the frozen ice of the pond before them as if they were expecting something to rise from it and direct their next movement. Because in truth, neither of them knew where to go; on any given night Dani would have simply found some warm spot in an alley and slept, but she was hesitant to abandon Danny. He would be cold, alone, and clueless. Like the ghost he'd been cursed with, he would wander endlessly and purposelessly, left to wonder what he had done to deserve his horrid existence and chip away slowly and painfully at his past, what he'd come to know as love, comfort, normality. It would drain him until he ceased to exist.

"I hate Vlad," Dani said after what seemed to be an eternity of staring dreamily into the mirror that was the sheet of ice before them, wondering if this was real and life had not simply been distorted by the looking glass. "And he hates me. He said he'd kill me if he ever saw me—would melt me down and try to get a clone of you from that. I can't go to him but…you could."

Danny looked at her, disbelief shaping his face. "Are you seriously suggesting that I…?"

"Yeah," she said, nodding. "You think you guys are mortal enemies, and maybe you are, maybe on even playing ground. But I know for a fact that if you came to him now and told him what happened he'd help you…I've heard him talk, Danny…you don't know how much he really likes you—I mean, he'd give anything to have you, just to have you acknowledge him without doing it as if you hated each other. And you _know _I wouldn't tell you that unless I really believed it."

She stood, leaving Danny to sit there and stare up at her with wide, sparkling green eyes. His expression was so piecemeal that it was unreadable as a whole, and she could not tell what he was thinking or would eventually decide. But she could not stay to find out—if she remained in the hateful twilight much longer, her still unstable form would disintegrate and little comfort or help would she be as a puddle at Danny's feet.

"I'm sorry, Danny, but I gotta go…it's too cold for me here and if I exert too much energy trying to stay warm I'll melt…I'll try to see you soon when I'm more stable but please, think about what I said." And with a brief hug to her stunned companion, she took to the wispy purple sky and disappeared into the darkness, leaving the boy alone in the marsh, where he would sit and ponder, sit and ponder, until twilight was no more. But that was not for a long time.

* * *

"IM BBBBBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK."~Kyle's brother Kyle.

While I was gone I was bi-winning, banging seven gram rocks because I'm one speed and one gear goooooooooooooooooooooo!

Paul shut up. SHUT UP.

No but in all seriousness I've been really sick and dealing with several illnesses and diseases and I haven't had a chance to write. So I'm sorry about that but hopefully I'll be able to provide regular updates now on all stories.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this, I actually really liked writing this. It was fun, and I feel like Im getting better at writing things more speedily, even though Im one speed, one gear goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

If you liked, please tell me what you think.

~IGOTTHESECLOTHESINMYMOMSGARBAGE

~Whycantfriezanadvegetahave888

~you'reallawesome=)

~VegetaCold


	2. Chapter 2

On that same cold morning, Vlad Masters resided in perhaps the opposite in all extremity to Danny Phantom's rigid dwellings; that was, the well-kempt, well-dressed man was comfortably lounging in a plush armchair in front of the fire place, where a warm blaze devoured a stack of wood and filled the room with a crisp, sweet and still somehow musky scent as it did. Still however he seemed not to desire the coziness—in fact, he had refused to untighten his bow or to remove his shoes; his jacket remained on his shoulders and his hair was still bound in a red tie.

And in keeping with this attitude his eyes were wide awake, and there seemed to be in that light not a trace of sleepiness—only a hungry, watchfulness, the desire to be awake and alert, to lose not an hour of life to something so moral as sleep. His fingers gripped the armrests, almost casually, but the gesture was measured, purposeful, as if his hands needed to rest there should they suddenly tighten to fists. For now, they would drum; would toil, would pace. By the fire it was apparent that he was nervous, uneasy. It was as if he was, in those late hours of the night, early hours of the morning, day break, waiting for something—someone, some bad news, maybe both.

His cat, a fluffy, regal ball of fluff, sat in a considerably more relaxed manner on the ottoman near his feet, purring softly in the heat the fire radiated, placated, her red eyes dimmed into a peaceful pink glow. She was watching him, seeming to sense the difference in her usually so collected owner, but she seemed far more interested in lounging across the length of the piece of furniture she occupied than in comforting Vlad with a rub against the legs, a head-butt, a little placating meow; as if to mock him, even the cat who had the name of his love would not give him the affection he so desired—not even the _cat_.

He looked up at her, this realization taking hold of his mind, with cold, annoyed eyes.

"You know I really don't like cats," he said coolly, moving his hands to create a rest for his head as he lowered it to glower more evenly at the cat's level. "The only reason I got you was so you'd at least _act_ like you cared. Do I have to get rid of you and find something else?"

The cat's face seemed to twist innocently to the man in the plush armchair; she seemed to say gently to him with her pink, almost seductive eyes, "Oh, you mean you'd get rid of _me_? But I thought you loved me and I loved _yoooouuu_..." At least, this is what the man heard as he stared at her—what should not have been an odd occasion considering he could carry out conversations with the cat and the cat alone at any given time—and he immediately regretted his previous harsh words against his replacement.

"Oh, Maddie, I'm sorry," he mumbled, and looked away, distractedly, with something, something unseen in the eyes of the once so fierce and mighty Vlad Masters, something which seemed in that beautiful fiery glow to be despondency, compunction, a sense of seclusion—none of which seemed to be in favor of the cat but which the little devil would flatter itself by understanding to be his apology—and something that, to anyone who'd known Vlad for any length of time would think completely impossible, simply legendary, myth—fear. "It's not you…I've…just had a terrible feeling …"

He stared into the fire, watching as the flames sent little specks of wood up into glowing ambers which burnt out upon connecting with the bricked surface of the fireplace. There was quiet in the room, broken only by the soft sounds of the fire, snapping and popping within the hearth. It should have been calming but instead it took about it an eerie, almost haunting quality, as if the man expected something to suddenly burst through the door, a corpse from the grave or a ghost sent from hell—something to happen. It was that sense of foreboding and it set his mind into an uneasy spiral which could only be remedied by the sound of his voice, breaking up that haunting silence; he made himself hear Maddie's voice questioning him about the details of his "terrible feeling" and asking him what she could do to help, and he answered readily, though not without a tired, hesitant quality about him; it was as though he wanted to talk, but not about _this_, per say.

Unfortunately, he felt as if he'd shatter into a million tiny pieces if he didn't share this burning information, like hot glass on a frosty table. He couldn't keep it in any longer.

"I don't know what it is, Maddie," he murmured, his attention still drawn to the fire where the log had been mostly eaten away, a charred husk its only remains. The snapping and popping had dwindled, but only slightly. "I woke up yesterday morning with the feeling that something was terribly wrong—I checked my bank accounts, I called the offices, I inspected the house—and I petted you of course, and everything was in place…but I still feel so thrown off…and this morning…last night…the feeling has grown and has not left.

"I don't think I've felt this way before," he continued, he gaze becoming more distant, faraway, deep in thought as if he were some poor soul drowning in an icy bath held only afloat by his own words. "I don't think I've ever…_not_ _known _what to expect…and I feel like I _do _know what to expect but I can't put my finger on it…"

As the man drifted further and further away from that life-ring of speech, his cat watched him, almost in an interested fashion; again, it would have been a slap in the face to the man if he had been present enough in that world to realize that the cat, like the real woman he desired found him amusing more than anything—interesting like a lab rat more than respectable and husbandly like a king. Maddie's tail swished lazily and interestedly across the ottoman; her eyes gleamed with something like sadism, a sick interest, and one observing would _swear _that cat wore a smirk on its face. But perhaps it was only a trick of the light—perhaps the cat was a cat and there was nothing else in that room, but the sinking man, the fire, the cat…

For some reason, Vlad suddenly found himself staring at the white thing, looking into her glowing yellow eyes with a look of awe, as if he'd never seen a cat's eyes—or a cat at all, like she was a foreign creature, an alien. His brow was downturned and his mouth had actually fallen open slightly; now he looked nothing like Vlad Masters, but rather a poor sap who'd been played the fool and would respond with fresh betrayed tears. Like this cat was to him, so was he to any familiar onlooker.

"Maddie…you're…I feel that…it's something to do with you…" he mumbled, staring at her with that same perplexed expression.

When she looked directly into his eyes, her own gently and knowingly gleaming, and smiled, he suddenly became very wary of her—frightened in fact. He suddenly had a vision, a hateful, deadly vision; a white coat of fur stained red—no, a body covered in the blood of a young corpse, tears of pain and betrayal, and…

The phone rang; the cell phone, the one he used primarily for work rang out with its plain but still surprisingly obnoxious ringtone, making him jump so violently he rattled the table next to the chair on which he sat and knocked over a mug of stone cold coffee onto the floor, where it shattered slowly, almost hesitantly, as if in slow motion, or in a dream. And in a similar fashion, Vlad sat there, shaken, recovering only after the third ring of the phone, before picking it up to see who was calling.

When he saw the name Danny Fenton spelled in tight digitized letters across the screen of his fancy cell phone, a wave of dark knowledge washed over him and seemed to drown him like the wave up until then he had miraculously avoided; it was blood red, and cold—cooling.

The cat Maddie sat there, smiling, her tail swishing.


End file.
